


Accord

by little_abyss



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Chantry Boom, Developing Friendships, Gen, Politics, Post-Canon, Revolution, Tevinter Imperium, Trust Issues, Unexpected Visitors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-03 00:45:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8690032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: Fenris moves north overland with a barely-formed idea.  However, someone he meets in a clearing of the Planascene Forest offers some unexpected help - and possibly changes history forever.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my pinch-hit for the Team Blue and Angry Glowbang of 2016. Thank you to [fadefox](http://fadefox.tumblr.com/), who was an utter treat to work with. You can view the [art which accompanies this fic (and inspired it) on tumblr ](http://fadefox.tumblr.com/post/153905497738/and-heres-at-last-my-contribution-to)\- just follow that link.
> 
> To [calligraphypenn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/calligraphypenn/pseuds/calligraphypenn), who beta'd for me and made me make sense of the words again, and to [Mnemnosynea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mnemosynea/pseuds/Mnemosynea), who organised the whole shebang, I would also like to extend my gratitude.

* * *

 

 

“...and we shall tear down the unassailable gates, and set all slaves free.”

Canticle of Shartan, 9:26

 

* * *

 

The world is gold and lilac, to the edge of the horizon and back.  The distant sea sparkles with the light of the setting sun, gorgeous as only an everyday wonder can be.  Fenris sighs, shading his eyes from the light as he looks out over the landscape.  

Today marks his third day out of Kirkwall.  It feels good to be out of the city - good to be on his own, his debt repaid.  Tonight he will rest in the shade of the Planascene forest, at the ford of the first of three small inlets which, should he follow them, would take him to the Minanter river eventually.  The settlement of Cumberland stands ahead of him, leagues inland yet.  But before he reaches the great dry plains of Nevarra, he will reach the Imperial Highway - and that is where he means to swing north, journeying toward the heart of the beast.  It will take sixteen days, give or take, to reach the great bridge over the Minanter where it runs west of Nevarra City.  A further ten to cross the Silent Plains.  At least that long - and longer again - to Minrathous.

 

He had lied about where he was going to Hawke and to Varric.  To them both, he had spun a tale of targeting slavers operating along the Wounded Coast.  Hawke had looked concerned, asked him if maybe he didn’t want a hand, or maybe he’d be better to join a mercenary crew - but Varric had smiled.  “Didn’t see any other story for you, Broody,” he’d said wryly, and winked.  

It had been almost a week after the final battle by the time they’d gotten to talk - a week after the culmination of all of those years of tension.  Fenris scans the treeline, heading inland now, following the inlet into the beginnings of the great forest.  He still remembers the smell of the explosion, the sight of all that rubble raining down, the strange sense of resignation he had felt as the roar of it made him flatten both hands over his ears.  He remembers the sight of Anders, kneeling, skin bared to Hawke’s knife, readying himself for a blow which never came.  

 

He remembers earlier than that, years before - the gleam of sunlight in the mage’s hair as they’d stood on the clifftop, the wind off the sea whipping their cloaks about their shoulders, waiting for Hawke to finish gathering herbs.  Those words ringing in his ears - _Some things are worse than death._  He hears them still, wonders if that was when Anders had made up his mind to sacrifice everything that he had left to his cause.  His _cause_ \- it ate him, devoured him whole, and he let it, he let it take him.  Did he want to die?  What use was he to anyone dead?

 

And yet - what is Fenris’ plan now?  To walk into the heart of the Imperium - to gather an army - to bring about the fall of the Tevinter Imperium, an end to slavery?   _That is no plan_ , he scolds himself, _At best that is vain hope - at worst, that is certain death._ But even on the same breath, he feels that it is not so - that although his rebellion could fail, it would weaken the establishment enough to… _Idiot,_ he thinks, _there have been slave rebellions before.  What makes you think that this will be any different?_ Fenris snorts, thinking _it is different,_ then wonders how.  To hear him tell it, Anders had suffered his whole life because of the way in which mages were treated in the south; and many of his experiences were similar to those which Fenris had had as a slave.  He makes a cursory check of his surroundings, and thinks again, _it_ is _different.  It has to be.  Because Anders let his cause consume him - and you cannot afford for that to happen to you.  There is too much riding on it.  Anders may have contented himself with a gesture of his rage, but in the end, he freed nobody, he changed nothing._ After making a second check, this time more carefully, he casts the small bundle he carries into the long grass at the side of the stream which gallops and leaps merrily down toward the coast.  This is as good a place as any to rest - perhaps not for the whole night, but the treeline will provide sufficient cover, while the small clearing next to the stream will shelter his fire.  He locates a lightly oiled rag in the bundle, then eases the longsword out of its sheath, sitting in the grass at the water's edge.

 

Fenris watches the sparkle of the dying sunlight on the water, the light now fading quickly from gold to copper, the violet to ash-purple.  Night will soon be upon him.  The trees should shelter his fire, and he has seen enough evidence of rabbits and fennec along his travels that he thinks he may

Something moves in the forest behind him - a quiet crackle, nothing more.

Quickly Fenris turns, dropping the rag and pushing himself to his feet, brandishing his sword.  Adrenaline courses through his veins, and immediately, his eyes light upon a figure swathed in a cloak, a cowl pulled low over its eyes.  Human, tall and... _The staff,_ Fenris thinks, his mind ablaze, _neutralise the..!_

“Fenris?” the figure says, their voice full of shock.  Then, the figure hefts the staff they carry over one arm and puts their hand on their hip.  “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

 

He knows that voice.  Fenris blinks, and against every instinct, lowers his sword slightly.  No.  It cannot be - and yet… “Anders?” he asks, “Why…”

“It’s alright,” Anders calls back into the trees as he pushes back his cowl, “It’s alright.  Or…” and here he takes a pace forward and looks at Fenris dubiously, “At least, I think it is.  I’m not alone,” he tells Fenris - and it’s not a threat, but it could be.  Fenris sighs, lowers his sword further until the point is resting almost on the turf.  But as he watches, his mouth drops open slightly, and he feels his expression change as confusion rises within him.

 

Behind Anders, struggling through the trees, come others.  A broad young man, in pants which are torn at both knees and short in the legs - an older woman, her long silver hair wild, her eyes round with fright.  Others - elves in badly disguised Circle robes, parents leading young children, old people huddled in cloaks.  The only common feature they have is that all of them carry staffs.  “It’s alright,” Anders repeats and smiles worriedly at Fenris.  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

 

 _If Meredith had had her way, that is exactly what you would be_ , Fenris thinks, and bites his tongue.  There are perhaps twenty people now, beginning to unpack various bits and pieces from packs and bundles.  Instead of speaking, he nods, and Anders gestures to him, waiting as Fenris approaches him slowly across the flattened grass.  “Mage,” he growls when he is in earshot, “Were you following me?”

“Maker’s bloody Breath, how could I have followed you?  I had a week at least on you,” Anders tells him, and smirks slightly, “Letting our instinct for paranoia get the better of us again, are we?”

 

“I am glad that you are so giddy about it,”  Fenris returns, and raises his sword, meaning only to put it back in its sheath.  There is a shout behind him, and Anders looks up, his expression shocked - he holds out a hand, the palm up, curling it under as he brings his staff forward.  “No!” Fenris shouts, his markings suddenly flaring to life, knowing that at this range, Anders could easily kill him… and then he blinks, feeling nothing but a warmth at his back, seeing the smug smile on Anders’ face, the one raised eyebrow.  “You idiot,” Anders tells him softly, “Eian thought you were going to stab me.  I just saved your life.”  He sniffs and smiles, shaking his head.  “I spent a long time watching your back with Hawke.  Too long for it not to have become a bit of a habit, I suppose.  Just... How about you _not_ wave your sword around when people here don’t know you very well?”

 

“I was… it is…” Fenris stutters angrily, and turns, seeing the barrier which Anders had cast around him.  It still shimmers slightly with the impact of the spell - through it he can see the tall young man, his fists clenched, arms held out from his body.  Fenris blows out a breath and hisses as he turns, “I would not be in this situation if it was not for you.”

 

Anders is silent - he drops his eyes, frowning thoughtfully.  With a wave of his hand, he dispels the barrier, then looks up sharply.  “Eian!” he shouts over to the young man, and Fenris turns around to glower at him.  The young man stares back at him belligerently.  “I appreciate the thought, but I’m quite capable of looking after myself,” Anders calls, and though his voice is jovial enough, there is a note of steel in it which Fenris equates more with the thing which resides inside Anders.  He looks back at the mage, expecting to see the telltale cracks in his skin, the bright blue-white of his eyes, but there is nothing.  Anders continues looking at the young man seriously for a moment, then looks at Fenris and nods.  “You’re right,” he says quietly.  “You’re right.  I suppose.  Though if you’re expecting an apology, you might have come to the wrong place.”

 

In the silence which follows these words, they stare at each other.  Fenris watches Anders’ face carefully, sees that he seems - younger somehow, as if a burden has been lifted.  His eyes are a clear, bright amber, curious and thoughtful, not unkind.  Almost unwillingly, Fenris smiles at him slightly, and then clears his throat and drops his gaze.  The silence continues for a moment longer, and then Anders says, “This is the remnants of Kirkwall’s Circle, and a few others we’ve picked up along the way.  We - Justice and I - we knew the reprisal for my actions would be swift - and though we expected I would lose my life, we couldn’t allow anyone else to suffer the brunt of it.  I got word to what remained of the underground a week before… what happened.  They had people at Kirkwall’s landside walls, waiting.  I left messages as best I could around the city, alerting people where to…”

“How?”  Fenris frowns, feeling as if he is swimming, struggling against the currents of his old perceptions about Anders - perceptions which tell him the mage could never be this careful, this cautious, this… well… _noble_.  “How did you..?”

Then it dawns on him.  Anders watches his expression with narrowed eyes and a small smile, and says, “If you’re thinking that we have a… it’s like a language, but with symbols… then you’d be right.  For messages, an encoded system.  Each language is slightly different, depending on the Circle.  I imagine that you used to know something like it.”

 

Fenris nods curtly and waits for Anders to continue.  Anders waits a few moments, then continues, “So here we are.  It’s slow - we’re not sure how much pursuit is following us, so we’re going kind of… around the long way.  Ideally, we’d go by sea - but the only person with a ship that I know seems to have a bad habit of flinging inconvenient passengers into the depths, so I thought better than to ask.”

Fenris grunts in approval and looks over his shoulder towards the group.  Some are making rudimentary shelters; several have started a fire.  Some of the elderly look as if they are beginning to prepare food, and two of the children present are trying to cajole a third into a game of some sort.  In no way does this look like a group of people on the run for their lives.  He looks back at Anders, frowning.  “Where will you take them?” he asks.

 

Anders lowers his chin and drops his eyes.  “Where do you think?” he asks.  There is silence for a beat, then Anders says softly, “North.”

Fenris shakes his head and Anders inhales deeply.  “Don’t start,” he says, “I know…”

“You know _nothing,_ ” Fenris hisses, leaning forward slightly.  “You know nothing about the lions den to which you will drag them.  You know nothing about the journey there - by sea it is terrifying, but by land… you know nothing of the language.  And how will you and your _spirit_ feel when those who travel with you are captured and sold?  The Imperium does not hesitate to chain the weak - mage or no.”

Anders scoffs.  “I should have known you’d assume the worst,” he sneers in return, “Alright then, since you’ve got an opinion on everything - where are _you_ going?”

 

Fenris leans back again, folding his arms and shifting his weight from foot to foot.  He remains silent, staring at Anders until he snorts and rolls his eyes.  “I _know_ what the situation is like in Tevinter for people like us,” he says, his voice quietly irritated, “After… after you and I… uh, spoke,” Fenris quirks an eyebrow at the choice of words but says nothing as Anders continues, “I looked into it - there’s not a lot of ex-slaves and deserters in Kirkwall, but there are a few.  And they come in - came in, I mean - to the clinic.  And after all of the stuff you went through with Danarius - I mean, he was awful.  If he was a shining light of the Imperium, I don’t want anything to do with that.   _We_ don’t want anything to do with that.”  Anders takes a deep breath and scowls.  “And that’s why we’re not going to Tevinter.  There’s more north of here than the Imperium, you know.  We’re only going north because… I mean, what is there south of here?  Fereldan?  Bugger off.”

 

“Huh,” is all Fenris can muster.  He wonders at the strange feeling of disappointment in his chest, wonders if perhaps he had wanted one more thing to hold over the mage, something which would confirm his opinion of him; or perhaps… something else.  What would Anders say of his plan, such as it is?  A vague feeling rises within Fenris - something like trepidation, something like hope.  Anders watches him for a moment, then shakes his head.  “Look,” he says, “If you want, you’re welcome to break bread with us.  I understand you probably want your clearing back, so we’ll find another place to bed…”

“It is not _my_ clearing, mage,” Fenris huffs, and shifts again.  “There is… no need to move your people on.  They seem like they are getting comfortable.”

Anders laughs a little under his breath and sighs.  “They don’t have much in the way of comfort,” he says ruefully, and looks over Fenris’ shoulder again at the group.  After a moment, he looks back and asks, “What will you do, then?  Where will you go?”

 

“I will carry on.  There is more forest north of here.  There will be other clearings.”

Anders frowns a little, then his eyes widen.  “Are… are _you_ going north?”  When Fenris does not reply, Anders gapes at him and stretches out a hand.  The hand hovers for a second in mid-air at the height of Fenris’ bicep - and then Anders lets it fall once more to his side.  “Fenris, Holy Maker,” he sighs, sounding horrified, “That’s madness.”

Fenris snorts.  “You would know,” he says coldly, and Anders drops his eyes, clenches his jaw.  Fenris bites the inside of his cheek, sorry for his choice of words.  “You are not the only one with a cause they feel strongly about,” he says softly, and Anders looks up.  The darkness is upon them now, and from somewhere far off, a wolf howls.  Anders nods once, his expression unreadable.  “Come on,” he says, and his voice is somehow sad, “Come and eat.”

 

-|||-

 

The fat of the rabbit runs in broad rivulets from the little body to spatter and hiss in the embers of the fire.  Fenris’ mouth waters at the smell as he sits in the flattened grass, once again cleaning his sword with the oiled rag.  The camp is quiet, but the mood is far from subdued - as he cleans, he listens to two of the older mages tell a convoluted story about a little known Divine of the Storm Age.  There is much laughter from around the two as they argue good-naturedly over the finer points of the story, and Fenris smiles slightly.  He had been reticent when Anders had made his offer - the thought of so much ambient magic in one place had made him question the effect on his markings.  But he had reasoned that he could always leave if it came to that, as it had been long indeed since he had last eaten more than a handful of elfroot and a dry, burnt husk of whatever animal he had managed to kill.  

 

He can see Anders from where he sits, there on the other side of the fire, standing by a lamp held high by the surly young man - Eian, Fenris remembers - talking to a woman with a large belly and a worried look on her face.  Anders smiles at her reassuringly, then he tells her something, and her worry seems to dissipate.  As he watches, he finds himself more enraptured with the calmness on Anders’ face - the way his hands move as he talks - the way his whole face lights up as he speaks to the woman - the way she watches him with nothing but trust and openness.  Fenris hisses in a sudden, harsh breath and looks at the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger, sees the blood welling out.  In his distraction, he had come too close to the cutting edge of the blade, and had sliced right through the oily rag and into his flesh.  Raising it to his mouth, sucking on the shallow cut, he tastes the coppery tang of his own blood and his eyes flick to Anders standing there on the other side of the fire.  Then he rises, sheathing the blade, and walks swiftly in the other direction.

 

-|||-

 

“No,” he tells the boy, who looks up at him with large, dark eyes.  “Thrust out from your hip.   _Out_ and _up_ ,” he says, lunging forward with his own stick in his hand. The moon hangs at the top of the trees, offering a pale half-smile down to the ragged band in the clearing, and the smell of cooking wafts to them from the gathered mass of people.  Fenris had found this child at the edge of the site, smashing a stick into the trunk of a tree, a fierce frown on his face.  He had offered a lesson - the boy had eyed the longsword on his hip for a moment and nodded.

 

“Out and up,” the boy repeats, still frowning, and performs the manoeuvre.  Fenris narrows his eyes at his technique, but nods anyway.  

“Good,” he lies, “Keep practising though.  Remember that only a fool has a single weapon - keep your mind sharp as well as your blade, always be learning.”  He smiles at the boy, who nods again and thrusts forward again.

“Mind sharp,” he lisps, “Blade sharp.  Mind sharp,” he pulls back and thrusts forward a third time, “Blade sharp.”

“Good,” Fenris repeats, a little more convincingly.  He hears a faint chuckle behind him and turns, frowning.  

“Rowan’s missing dinner,” Anders smiles, and tells the boy, “It’s all very well to have a sharp mind and a sharp blade - but you can’t fight anyone on an empty belly. Go on.  Your mother’s looking for you.”

 

The boy begins running away, back toward camp, then turns abruptly.  “Thank you, sers!” he yells happily at them, and then turns away again, waving his stick excitedly over his head as he runs.  Anders and Fenris both watch him go, then Anders turns to Fenris and smiles slightly.  “Here,” he says, holding out a tin plate, “I thought you might be hungry.”

Fenris’ belly rumbles at the sight of the food - unleavened bread, a haunch of rabbit, some green vegetable.  He takes the offering from Anders and sits abruptly, holding the plate close to his face with one hand as he uses the other to scoop up food as fast as he can.  The bread tastes incredible to him, soft and yielding, the greens crisp and bright with flavour and the meat - Fenris groans as the fat dribbles down his chin, looks up at Anders and tries to speak. Anders looks back at him, a wry, amused smile touching his mouth, and then he sinks slowly to the ground next to Fenris, huffing out a satisfied sigh.  “Don’t try to talk,” he says quietly, “I don’t want to have to rescue you from choking.”

 

Fenris swallows finally and asks, “Is that salt?  Venhedis, you bought salt?”

Anders shrugs and nods.  “It’s good for bartering.  Often the further you go away from the coast, the more likely it is to be expensive.  Plus it has some healing applications.”  He watches Fenris for a moment, then asks, “When did you cut yourself?”

Fenris pauses, his hand halfway to his mouth.  “Earlier,” he says vaguely, “I was… not attending my blade properly.  It was an accident.”  He pushes the food into his mouth quickly, not looking up at Anders, fearful that it will be plain to him the images which are now coursing through Fenris’ head - the smile on Anders’ face as he had spoken to the woman, the way his hands had moved gently through the air.  

 

Anders laughs quietly under his breath.  “Sharp blade, but the mind needs work?  Do you want me to take a look at it?” he asks, and smiles.  Fenris narrows his eyes then swallows and snorts a laugh.  “You could say that,” he says, then looks down at his empty plate.  “No.  I would prefer to heal the old fashioned way.  But… thank you,” he says quietly.  “You did not need to do this.”

“Well,” Anders says uncomfortably, “Like you said -  you wouldn't be in this situation if it weren’t for me.  Though… knowing what…. or guessing, rather, guessing at where you’re headed - I can’t imagine that you haven’t made some plans of your own.  You must have a whole army waiting for you.”

 

Fenris hesitates.   _It does not matter what you tell him,_ he thinks, _After tonight you will go your separate ways.  What difference does it make if he knows_?  “No,” he says simply, and puts the plate on the ground, wiping his hands on the grass.  “No army.  Nobody knows I am coming.  I… do not know what I am doing.  But I know I must do it.”

 

For a long time, he does not dare to look at Anders, who remains silent.  Fenris imagines that he is making a face of some sort - probably the frowny one, the one that looks like he has smelled something unpleasant.  But when he finally gathers his courage and looks up into Anders’ face, all he sees is astonishment.  “Fenris,” Anders says slowly, “I mean… Maker…” he breathes, and for a moment, his eyes shine bright blue in the darkness, and he cocks his head as if listening.  Fenris swallows nervously, then tells him, “If you are about to unloose that demon, you can…”

 

“Fenris,” Anders says sharply - and it is his own voice, not that of the other thing, “Listen to me.  There’s no way that you can bring down the Imperium without some serious forethought.  I mean… what were you thinking?  You were just going to waltz up and start pulling hearts out of chests?”

“I know.  I know that!”  Fenris says, the words seething from him, his fists clenched on his thighs - but it is more with the annoyance of having the illusion of his so-called plans so readily pointed out to him than with any real anger.  “I just…”

 

“Have you even got any contacts there?” Anders asks, still staring in astonishment at Fenris, “Anyone at all who can give you an in?  And I mean, at least when I came to Kirkwall there were people who needed me, my skills.  What in the void were you going to do for coin?  Become an assassin?”

“I hadn’t…”

“I know that you talked about the… what is it, the class system?  Are there any possible in-roads you could make in the middle class, the sophomores or whatever they’re called?  And what about the reprisal?  What about the power vacuum afterwards?  What about…”

 

“As if you did any of those things!” Fenris growls, and puts both hands into his hair.  “I told you, I haven’t thought about any of this!  I just…”  He breathes deep, trying desperately to calm himself.  “I just…” He sighs all the air out of his lungs and thinks hard about the things Anders has just asked him, trying to come up with answers.  Slowly, his mind circles the words, which seem to clang and reverberate around in his skull.  He has nothing.  No answers - nothing.  No.  Wait.  There is something there, some common thread which binds all of these questions.  Mentally, Fenris gropes for the answer and all he sees is the one, small, fact.

Not once has Anders expressed any doubt over whether or not Fenris’ actions will succeed.

 

Fenris takes another breath and holds it.  In the quiet of the evening, he hears the travellers beginning to call soft good nights to one another.  The night is full of other noises too - the sound of the leathery wings of a bat as it flies overhead, the song of crickets in the long grass at the foot of the trees, the rustle of the leaves in the light breeze.  He releases his held breath, and then, very quietly, Anders speaks.

“I know that’s not what you wanted to hear,” he tells Fenris, “I know.  And I realise how desperately you must want to prevent what happened to you happening to anyone else.”  He laughs then, quietly, bitterly.  “Trust me.   I mean…”  He sighs, and interlaces his fingers, clutching his hands together in his lap.  “The things you and I wanted to achieve are different.  Kirkwall… Kirkwall was madness, the worst manifestation of the Chantry’s perpetual evils against mages.  Ideally, we - Justice and I - would have achieved some kind of separation between the governance of the Circles and the Chantry, some kind of return to their purpose for those that wished it.  What you want is complete systematic change really, a destruction of the entire economic and social systems of an entire nation.”  Anders sighs again and looks at Fenris, worried.  “And… what I did… it was an act of desperation, after years of being ignored.  But no matter what your aims, you’ll need allies.  You’ll need someone, several someones, preferably, to watch your back, to help you where they can.  Like Varric helped me with the Templars, how he kept them off my doorstep, and the Carta too.  Like Hawke helped me with… well.  You know.”  Anders clears his throat and looks uncomfortable for a moment.  “Trust me,” he repeats, “You’ll need friends.”

 

Fenris shakes his head.  “It is better for me this way.  I would not take anyone else into the jaws of the wolf with me.  I cannot ask anyone to do this for me.”

“Bloody void, nobody said anything about _for_ you,” Anders snorts.  “I’m talking about _with_ you.  Come on.  There has to be someone.  Varric'd know - don’t the dwarves have trade connections with Tevinter?”  

Fenris nods, then says, “Yes.  Varric would be a potential source of information. And in Rivain and Antiva - many of those who escape end up in those nations.  Some of them would heed the call - some of them would have more recent information than I.”

Anders returns the nod, smiling.  The smile fades somewhat as he asks, “What about magic?”

 

Fenris narrows his eyes and asks, “What do you mean?”

“When the inevitable retaliation against you comes,” Anders says quietly, “They’ll attack you and your people with magic.  It stands to reason.  It’s what I’d do.  Are you…”  He clears his throat and looks up at the sky, glimmering now with uncountable stars, “Are you going to have mages at your side?”

“Mages would not fight for us,” Fenris says abruptly, staring at the side of Anders’ face in the pale light.  “Not when they think, as you do, that Tevinter is a paradise.”

 

Anders is silent for a moment, still gazing upward.  Then, slowly, he turns his head and looks at Fenris.  His hair and skin is pale as milk under the light of the crescent moon and stars, and his eyes shine like silver as he sighs.  “No paradise can exist on the backs of slaves,” he says quietly, firmly.  He is silent for a while, merely studying Fenris, then says, “I’ll come with you.”

 

“This is not your fight,” Fenris says, frowning at Anders, who shrugs and grins strangely.  

“It is though, in a way,” Anders tells him, “I mean, I’ll need some help getting these people to safety.  Or… as safe as they can be.  So,” and here the grin broadens a little, “My help doesn’t come cheap, unfortunately.  And you’ll still have to deal with… you know… _me_.  But until you get the information you need, and you start building up your support - I’ll be here.”  He clears his throat again and looks away, abashed.  “You know,” he mutters, “If you’ll have me.”

 

Fenris thinks, hard.  Anders is right - without some kind of magic on their side, it will be useless to try and bring a brute force rebellion to bear against the Imperium.  But Anders is only one mage, what possible use will he be?   _You are only one as well_ , Fenris thinks suddenly, _and yet you were going to attempt this on your own._ He narrows his eyes, breathing the sweet scent of the grass, there in the clearing at the edge of the inlet, the salt of the sea breeze distant and bitter.  Glancing up, he watches as the stars wheel in the heavens, impervious to all that occurs beneath them.  “It is done,” Fenris murmurs, still staring up at the sky, revelling in the portent of the moment, the world suddenly rich with potential, “We march as one.”

  
He looks back at Anders, who smiles at him, a tiny smile, but one full of hope.  Above them, a shooting star blazes a bright trail overhead.  Neither of them notice it.

 


End file.
